


It's Getting Hot in Here

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry likes to take his clothes off. This causes Zayn problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Getting Hot in Here

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing that felt just long enough that it merited AO3 rather than tumblr. Enjoy!
> 
> (Don't know anything, standard disclaimers apply)

“No, you don’t get it!” The girl—Liz, Zayn thinks her name was, but he couldn’t hear it over the shouting of the club—insists. “Kanye is great, he’s the best.”

“That’s bullshit,” the guy next to her, who might or might not have been her boyfriend and might or might not have been helping her proposition him for a threesome, “Drake is clearly superior.”

“Drake is superior to everyone,” Zayn agrees and toasts the guy with his beer when the guy nods enthusiastically. He’s not bad looking, Zayn figures, though he wasn’t eye-catching when Zayn was standing at the bar, looking around for anyone interesting to talk to while Harry and everyone danced. His girlfriend-or-maybe-not is a bit hotter. He wouldn’t object, probably, if they were trying to pull him.

“You’re both—oh!” Liz’s hand comes up to cover her mouth, and she starts to grin, sort of smirking. Okay, he’d probably be for it. “Didn’t know it was that kind of club. Brian, you take me to the best places.”

Zayn and –Brian, apparently—glance over their shoulders to see where she’s looking, and Brian snorts. Zayn closes his eyes and sighs. On one of the raised tiers that surround the dance floor, for those people bold enough to actually want to show off (in other words, a place Zayn would never go), there’s a boy with long brown hair and broad shoulders dancing, his fingers halfway down his shirt. It’s magnetic, really, the sight of it. Another boy’s got a hand wrapped around his wrist, trying to pull him down, but he’s not having any luck—especially given he’s laughing as hard as Harry is.

“Yeah, it’s not,” Zayn sighs, and runs a hand over his hair. “That’s my friend. I’ve got to go help.”

“No, don’t,” Liz purrs, and Zayn is going to be very mad at Harry for possibly cockblocking him, once he gets his clothes back on.

“Sorry,” Zayn says again, and turns away, pulling the edge of his jumper out of the way of the spill of something on the bar near where his elbow was resting. He thinks Brian says something, but he’s out of earshot by that time, making his way to where Niall’s still trying to pull Harry down. He really wishes this was the first time Harry had had the urge to remove his clothes in public, but it’s not at all, and usually it takes at least two people to convince him to put clothes back on, especially if he’s drunk.

“Thank fuck, Zayn,” Niall pants, when Zayn comes up behind him and announces his presence with a tap on the hips. “Get him to put some clothes on, will you? Or at least get down? Or take his pants off too so he can make us beer money?”

Zayn laughs, and glances up to Harry. His shirt is all unbuttoned now, hanging loosely over his shoulders so the tanned skin of his abs and chest show through, glistening with sweat that makes him look horribly lickable. They’re going to either get mobbed or kicked out soon.

“Hey, Haz!” he shouts, over the music, and Harry glances down, his eyes lighting up when he sees Zayn. It’s almost worse than all the skin.

“Zayn!” he calls back. “Come up and dance with me!”

“Never going to happen, babe,” Zayn chuckles. “Come down here and talk with me.”

Harry huffs out a breath like it’s the hardest thing in the world, but he hops off the dais, stumbling a little as he lands so he falls into Zayn, his chin bumping against Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn catches him with his hands on his waist, sets him back upright. “How drunk are you?” he asks. You can never tell with Harry.

“Not very.” Harry shrugs. His shirt slips off his shoulders more, and there’s a catcall from behind them. But his eyes are clear, and anyway, Harry doesn’t have to be drunk to take off his clothes.

“Liar,” Niall laughs.

“Am not!” Harry retorts, hands on his hips. “I’m soberish!”

“Okay, babe.” Zayn puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder before he starts getting really active and the shirt falls off completely. Harry stops when his hands hits skin, tilts his head to look at Zayn so his fingers brush over the side of his neck, so Zayn can almost feel his pulse there. “Then why don’t you put on clothes, too?”

“I am wearing clothes!”

“Not much of it,” Niall points out. Harry glares back, and Zayn squeezes his shoulder before he can get distracted, making a face at Niall. Niall shrugs, unconcerned.

“Why don’t you put your shirt back on, though?” Zayn suggests casually. “Button it up and all.”

Harry shakes his head. “Can’t.”

“Oh?” Zayn is trying very hard not to smile, because if he smiles Harry will know he’s won, and he needs to get Harry clothed again no matter how well he walks the line between adorable and hot (he’s not sure when his life became something where that was not an unusual thought process). “Pretty sure you can, actually.”

“No, it’s got stuff on it,” Harry announces, and points to what is, admittedly, a large beer stain on the right side just above his rib cage. “Can’t wear it.”

“Can’t you just for tonight?” Zayn tries. Harry’s eyebrows furrow.

“Why are you trying so hard to make me put clothes on?” he whines, and shifts closer to Zayn. “It’s hot and I’m hot and I don’t want to put a shirt on.”

Zayn lets his hand fall before it touches more of Harry. There be dragons, and all. “So we don’t get kicked out and you can dance more,” he explains easily. “Can you wear the shirt tonight?”

“No.”

“Harry….”

“No,” Harry repeats. Zayn sighs. He could be having a threesome with two moderately attractive and rather dirty-minded people right now. It would be much less problematic to his mental and emotional health.

“Okay, can you wear a different shirt?” he asks. Harry’s eyes narrow.

“Like what?”

“Like…” Zayn casts around. Liam had been wearing a vest, Louis’d had…a t-shirt, he thinks. “Niall’s overshirt?” he suggests. Niall gives him a look that’s probably trying to be affronted over Harry’s shoulder, and Zayn tries to give him an apologetic look back.

“No.” Harry’s gotten even closer, somehow, nuzzling into Zayn’s neck sort of incidentally. He always gets cuddly when he’s drunk, Zayn reminds himself. “You smell good.”

Zayn lets out a long breath. Somehow it always comes to this. “Fine, then,” he says. He doesn’t know why he didn’t lead with this. Well, no. He does know. He just doesn’t really like to think about it often. “Want my jumper?”

Harry pulls away from Zayn’s neck to give him a slow grin. “Yes please,” he says, like he’s tasting the words on his tongue.

Zayn barely refrains from rolling his eyes, but he pushes Harry a little bit away so he can strip off his jumper and, ignoring the “take it off!” call from someone in the crowd, hand it to Harry. It’s a lot colder with just his thin white t-shirt on, but at least everyone’s covered.

Harry shrugs off the rest of his shirt and pulls the jumper on immediately. It hangs oddly off of him, tight around the waist and a little baggy at the shoulders, so it’s very clear it’s not his. Zayn very carefully does not think about how that makes him feel. It's just something to cover Harry.

“Okay?” he asks, instead.

Harry’s arms wrap around himself, tugging at the hem of the jumper. “Very!” he agrees. “Now can I dance?”

“Don’t spill anything on it,” Zayn warns, and Harry nods.

“Won’t.” he reaches out, wraps a hand around Zayn’s wrist. The sleeves are a little short, so the strong bones at his wrists are revealed, the hint of ink there. Zayn swallows. He really should have just gone with Liz and Brian. It’s always simpler to be far away from Harry when he gets like this. “Come dance.”

“Nah,” Zayn says, and carefully pulls his hand away. He doesn’t look at Harry, because he’s afraid if he will he’ll be convinced, and he has some self-preservation instinct left. Not when Harry is wearing his sweater and he shouldn’t care about that, he shouldn’t. It’s stupid and caveman-like and he doesn’t have any claim on Harry at all and he needs a drink. “I’m going to get another drink.”

“Okay.” Harry lets go and steps back, tugging at the hem again. He’s going to stretch it out so horribly. Zayn really tries to care. “Well, I am.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Glad you’re both okay,” Niall rolls his eyes. “Come on, Haz, let’s go over there, those girls were eying you earlier.”

“I don’t take off my clothes to wingman for you,” Harry complains, but he lets himself be dragged away with a final grin for Zayn.

He looks really fucking good in Zayn’s jumper. Fuck. Zayn rubs his temple with his fingers, and goes to get that drink.

\---

Harry dances until he can’t remember how long he’s been dancing for, his hips moving and music pounding in his ears. It’s easy to dance here, to let himself just move and the alcohol to get to his brain and let him do what he wants, to revel in the way people look at him all the time. He loves it, loves dancing like this, even if it’s hot as fuck.

It’d be cooler if he took off Zayn’s jumper, he knows; it’s part of why he likes to take off his shirt at clubs, because he gets really hot dancing and it’s cooler, but he’s never taking off this jumper. It’s too tight and too loose at once and it’s too hot and Harry’s pretty sure no one but Zayn can actually pull off the pink and Harry is never ever ever taking it off. Or at least not while it still smells like Zayn, until it stops feeling like his.

Someone comes up behind him, starts to dance against him, and Harry steps away. He’d like it normally, loves dancing all the time and with anyone, but not while he’s wearing Zayn’s shirt. While he’s wearing Zayn’s scent on him, like he’s been claimed. It’s not, he knows it’s not, but that’s what it feels like, that’s what it always feels like when he’s wearing Zayn’s shirts or jumpers or jackets or whatever Zayn gives him when he starts taking off his clothes.

It’s not why he always somehow ends up shirtless in clubs. He really does get hot when he gets a little bit of alcohol in him and he doesn’t like clothes, they’re confining, and he loves how people look at him when he lets his shirt go open or off all together. But it is an added bonus.

Harry tugs at the hem of the sweater so it’ll stay down on his longer torso, then looks around. He’s lost Niall but found Liam, bouncing around dancing with one hand in the air, and he can’t see Louis, and Zayn is slipping outside. He’s alone, so he’s going for a smoke. But he’ll be cold outside. Harry should go with him, give him his jumper back. Or just go with him.

“I’m gonna…” he yells, and gestures to the door. Liam nods vaguely, which is basically an ok, so Harry stumbles out of the dance floor, buffeted by people and a few friendly shoves until he’s spit out by the door, then he ducks out too.

It’s not hard to find Zayn. It’s never hard for Harry to find Zayn, it’s like he always knows where he is, so he knows where he is now, leaning against a brick wall with a cigarette between two fingers, the other arm curved around him like he’s keeping the heat in. Harry tries really hard to regret taking his jumper, but it’s not actually cold, it’s just one of those spring days that you can decide if it’s spring or if it’s still winter, and Harry had decided spring but Zayn had decided winter.

He’s a winter sort of person, Harry’s always thought, watching him blow smoke out into the night air. Like, beautiful and sort of mysterious, but also warm and cozy and cuddling up in front of a fire with hot cocoa. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t cold now, in just his t-shirt, no matter how good he looks in just the thin white shirt.

So Harry goes over and curls against him without a word, tucks them together so he’s got his arms around Zayn’s waist and he’s sort of trapped Zayn’s arm between them. Zayn smells even better than his sweater.

“Hey, Haz,” Zayn chuckles. He didn’t even start when Harry grabbed him, which always makes Harry feel a little triumphant, because Zayn doesn’t really do touching with people he isn’t close to and the fact that he lets Harry grab him and cuddle him whenever he wants always feels like a victory. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Zayn’s arm has somehow made its way free of Harry’s very clever trap to wrap around Harry’s shoulders sort of, so it rests right at the small of his back. It’s one of Harry’s favorite ways for Zayn to touch him, that casual touch over his jumper that feels proprietary. It isn’t, Harry knows, because he’s seen him touch the other boys like that before, but it feels like it could be, and that’s almost enough. “You should have danced with me.”

“I gave you the shirt off my back, what more do you want?” Harry lifts up his head, because that sounded snappish and he wants to make sure Zayn sees his hurt face. He didn’t ask Zayn to give him his shirt. He didn’t ask anyone to want Zayn’s shirt. Zayn sighs when he sees the expression on Harry’s face. “Sorry, babe.” He runs his hand down Harry’s back, once, and Harry purrs and shuffles a little closer. “Tired. You managed to cockblock me, too.”

“Oh?” Harry really tries to feel bad about that, but only manages viciously pleased. He doesn’t want Zayn fucking anyone else while he’s wearing his jumper.  

“Yeah. And for a threesome.”

“You could have found them again,” Harry tells Zayn’s neck. He doesn’t want Zayn to say he had.

“Could have,” Zayn agrees. Harry hadn’t realized it right away but he’s drunk too, a little. He hadn’t been when Harry had begged for his jumper, but he is now, talking slower but less carefully. “Didn’t.”

Harry makes a sound and nuzzles into Zayn’s neck again. In just his t-shirt, Harry can bury his face into Zayn’s collarbone, can look at all the places he would lick and bite and mark if he could, how he would color Zayn so everyone knew whose he was.

Zayn must take that as inquiry, because he shrugs the shoulder Harry hasn’t taken, then takes another drag. “Didn’t feel like it,” he explains.

“Good.” Harry can’t resist; he bites gently at Zayn’s shoulder, open mouthed without enough pressure to mark or anything, just enough to remind Zayn he’s there.

“Good?”

“Good.” He does it again, and Zayn shivers slightly. “You cold?”

“Little,” Zayn admits. Harry hugs him tighter.

“You could have your jumper back,” he says reluctantly. He doesn’t want Zayn getting cold, or sick, or anything. But he really doesn’t want to give it back. He doesn’t want to go back in there without it. Without Zayn wrapped around him, enough that he can pretend.

“No,” Zayn snaps. Then, “No,” he repeats, more measured. “No, then you’ll just be shirtless and we’d have all our original problems back.”

“Me being shirtless is not a problem,” Harry mutters. Zayn always tries to make him wear more clothes. It’s enough to give a boy a complex, really. “But I like your jumper better.”

“You look good in it,” Zayn agrees, then Harry feels his shoulders stiffen. “I mean, it looks good on you, because clothes look good on you a lot.”

Harry’s known Zayn too long, is a little too drunk, for him to let Zayn get away with this. He looks up, and he knows his eyes are wide. “Do you like how I look in your jumper, Zayn?”

“No. I mean, yes, it flatters you, you’re a handsome lad.” Zayn’s talking too fast, almost stammering, and he never does that, not when he’s drunk and lazy and with Harry, and something that feels almost like a hope he’s never had before kindles in him.

“Fine then,” he says, and lets go of Zayn. “I’ll go find someone else who wants to take it off me.”

He gets a step away before there’s a hand around his wrist yanking him closer. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Zayn hisses, as Harry stumbles into him. He’s put out his cigarette sometime, and now one of his hands is tight on Harry’s wrist and the other one is heavy on his hip and Harry feels like he’s on fire with it.

Then all at once he lets go of Harry, presses himself back into the wall like he’s trying to get distance. “Fuck. Sorry. No. Go do what you want. Shit,” he ends, and runs his hand through his hair. It musses it up delightfully, but Harry doesn’t like it. He wants to be doing the mussing.

“Really?” he asks, quietly. He won’t—he doesn’t think he can, with the jumper like the heat of Zayn’s gaze wrapped around him—but… “I mean…”

“Yeah.” Zayn bites at his lip. He looks almost nervous, but that’s not right, because Harry never makes him nervous. He looks confused too, conflicted, and Harry doesn’t make him that either. “I mean, it’s not like I have any, like, it’s just a jumper.”

He doesn’t look like it’s just a jumper. Harry’s not sure he’s ever seen him look like this, almost wild-eyed, not any of the other times Harry’s conned a jacket or a shirt from him, but maybe he just hadn’t dared look, hadn’t wanted to confront the reality when he had the fantasy wrapped around him. So Harry presses closer, wraps himself around Zayn so his hands rest at his waist. Zayn’s hands come almost instinctively to his hips, which is high on Harry’s favorite spots for them. “Is it?” he asks.

“It should be,” Zayn replies, almost desperate. “It’s not—I don’t have—I’m not a fucking caveman, and I don’t have any right to be, and—”

“Feels like you do,” Harry interrupts him. Zayn’s eyes are infinitely dark in the night, as he looks at Harry like a question and a plea. “I wouldn’t let anyone else take your clothes off of me.”

Zayn’s fingers tighten on Harry. “Good,” he says, almost a growl, then catches himself again and loosens his grip. Harry lets out a frustrated sound. He wants Zayn to growl at him, to growl at anyone else who tries to get Harry out of his clothes.

But he has to be brave for that, and he’s drunk and he can inhale the scent of Zayn, the warmth of his jumper that feels like it’s him urging him on. “I’d let you,” he says. “I’d let you take any clothes off of me.”

They both freeze, with that in the open. With that hanging there, like it’s filling the bits of air left in the space between them.

Then Zayn laughs, a low chuckle that sounds more like a promise than like he’s laughing at Harry, and his fingers wrap into Harry’s belt loop and tug him closer. “Don’t think you’ve ever needed help taking off clothes, Haz.”

Harry grins at him. “Not when you’re there to put them back on me.”

“Thought you wanted me taking them off of you.”

“Both,” Harry decides, in the second before Zayn finally kisses him. “Both.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to talk about it? Comment or come say hi on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/)


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